Page 51 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

THE WALLS HAVE SECRETS

D ragan drives like he’s allergic to speed limits. One hand on the wheel, the other probably hiding a weapon, eyes sharp beneath those designer sunglasses that make him look like he walked out of an Eastern European fashion campaign titled Brooding, But Will Kill You.

“You sure this is the place?” he asks, pulling up in front of the café where Joanne and I plotted Vukan’s fate just over a month ago. I nod, trying not to show how excited I am.

“Positive.”

Joanne’s already inside, perched at the corner of the bar, waving when she spots me. She grins as I walk in, her gaze flicking past me to the wall of muscle that is Dragan, who stands by the entrance like he owns the oxygen.

“Well, well,” she says, voice pitched just enough for trouble. “Is that your new security detail or a sculpture that came to life to ruin panties?”

I sigh. “Joanne…”

“What? I’m just saying. Handsome as fuck goons should come with warning labels.”

Behind me, Dragan shifts his weight. “I heard that.”

She smirks and mouths worth it at me.

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. Dragan gives me a glance that could curdle wine, but I know he’s amused. Probably.

Joanne and I slide into our favorite table at the back, half-shielded by a hanging plant and years of whispered secrets. The place smells like cinnamon and safety. I wrap my hands around the frappe she sets before me, even before she asks what’s wrong.

“You’ve been weirdly quiet,” she says. “For you.”

I look at her. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Vukan?”

I nod, slow and helpless.

Joanne leans forward, her eyes softening. “Okay, so… how bad is it?”

“It’s bad,” I whisper. “Like—he lives in my head. Rent-free. Renovated. Rewired the damn plumbing. I wake up thinking about his voice. I see him in dreams. I’m this close to buying a Serbian language app just to decode his little pet names.”

Joanne blinks. “Damn.”

“I know.”

She grins wickedly, lowering her voice like we’re planning a heist. “So… how was the sex?”

I nearly choke on my latte. “Jo!”

“Don’t ‘Jo’ me. I have a right to know. You’ve been walking around like your thighs remember something holy. So? Are you ruined?”

I glance around. Dragan is by the door, arms crossed, definitely pretending not to eavesdrop—but his smirk says otherwise.

I lean in. “Yes.”

Her eyes widen.

I nod solemnly. “Yes. I’m ruined. It wasn’t just sex. It was... transcendental. Like my soul came apart and applauded. ”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. The man kissed me like he owned the concept. And when he touched me?” I exhale. “I forgot who I was. I forgot my last name. And worse than that? I forgot why I was fighting him.”

Joanne fans herself dramatically with a napkin. “Jesus. I’m both jealous and terrified for you.”

“Same.”

We sit there in silence for a beat. Then she whispers, “So now what?”

I don’t have an answer. But I know I’m not walking away from him.

Because I can’t even if I wanted to.

Not when I’ve already started falling—and yet, it feels like flying.

Later, Dragon drives me to the Borrelli minions because my idle hands have become the devil’s tools. I’m lost in our cocoon, but I wish to know more about Wolfie, the man I make love to, and the man with a darkness I can’t explain—the man I want to understand.

I said I’d respect his privacy. I didn’t need to know who he was before me, because the man I’ve met—the man who terrifies and steadies me—is enough.

But here I am, walking into Matteo’s office with a knot in my throat and too many questions I’ve spent weeks pretending not to have.

Alena greets me in the hallway with a warm hug and a knowing smile. She always knows when something’s off, even when I’m dressed in all black and wearing enough confidence to pass for bulletproof.

“Matteo just fed Lorenzo lunch,” she says softly. “He’s in his office now. ”

“Perfect timing,” I mutter. “I’m about to ruin his morning.”

She pats my shoulder. “You’ve done worse,” she teases.

She’s not wrong. I slip into Matteo’s office just as he’s closing a folder. His expression shifts when he sees me—part surprise, part concern.

“Bianca.” He leans back in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “Everything. I don’t know.”

“Sit,” he says immediately. No command. Just brother.

I sit in the winged back chair I’ve dubbed mine.

“I need to ask you something,” I start.

His brows lift, just slightly. “About Vukan?”

I nod. He studies me for a long moment.

“You’re serious about him.”

“I’m serious about wanting to understand.” I’m not ready to announce to the world that we’re together. I enjoy having Vukan to myself.

Another pause. He sits back slowly, fingers steepled under his chin.

“You want facts,” he says.

“Not gossip.” He nods once. But then his voice drops. “Are you happy?”

The question floors me more than anything else he could’ve said.

“I think so,” I whisper.

He nods again, slower. “Are you afraid of him?”

“No,” I say. “I’m afraid of how much I care.”

That’s when he exhales and finally speaks.

It turns out Vukan was married before. Her name was Danica. She was Serbian. He was twenty-four. She died at twenty-seven. Their daughter—Lana—was barely three. They were killed in a bombing in Slovenia.

The photo was never released publicly, but Matteo saw it.

“He dug through the rubble himself,” he says. “With his bare hands. ”

I can’t breathe. The depths of this man’s love are overwhelming.

Matteo stands and comes around the desk, sitting on the edge near me. “I’ve done business with a lot of men like Vukan. Men who are cold and cruel.”

“But not him,” I say.

“No,” Matteo agrees. “Not him. His brother, yes.”

He touches my shoulder. “You’re the only person I’ve seen get under his skin without drawing blood. However, it appears that he let you in. You know how precious you are to him. He won’t do that lightly.”

I give him an appreciative nod.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I will be. I’m shocked he was married.” Shocked, yes, but it’s jealousy. Plain and simple. He loved another woman.

As if my brother knows what I’m thinking, he says, “He was young, but in countries that have seen war like that, you grab whatever happiness you can find.”

I let his words sink in momentarily, and then he continues.

“He kept his word to us. He never wanted his brother to traffic women. I never thought I’d say this, but he’s a good man.”

“He’s got game, I’ll give him that.”

Matteo gives me a long, considering look. One that says he's not done meddling anytime soon.

“So,” he says, drawing the word out like he's got all day. “You two getting married, or what?”

I snort. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”

He shrugs, all smug big-brother energy. "You’re doing the ten dates thing. How’s that going?"

I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Maybe I’m keeping score. Maybe I’m already winning.”

He grins. “Oh, it's a competition now?”

“Everything's a competition,” I say sweetly. “Especially with a man like Vukan. You blink and he’s three moves ahead.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Matteo says, mock-serious.

“It’s invigorating,” I shoot back. “He keeps me sharp. And I love keeping him humble.”

Matteo laughs, shaking his head. “And here I thought he was the dangerous one.”

“He is,” I agree easily. “But so am I.”

He studies me for a moment longer, something warm and proud flickering behind his eyes. “You love him.”

It’s not a question.

I shrug, aiming for casual, but my voice betrays me. “Maybe I feel something.”

“Really?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t make it weird, Matteo.”

“You’re making it weird,” he counters, smirking.

“You're the one interrogating me like it's family dinner and he’s about to ask for my hand.”

“Should he?” Matteo asks, deadpan.

I pick up a pen from his desk and pretend to consider it, twirling it between my fingers. "Let’s see how the next date goes. If he survives me, maybe."

Matteo chuckles low in his chest, the kind of laugh that feels like a blessing. "Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance."

“He really doesn’t,” I agree, grinning wickedly.

“He’s lucky,” Matteo states.

“Yeah, whatever, I’m going to leave now and visit your lovely wife.”

He knows he’s a lucky man to have her, and he smiles.

I stop by the solarium. It’s filled with toys, and a tiny Tikes table and chairs.

Alena’s there, sitting on the floor with Lorenzo in her lap, and she’s reading to him.

The sunlight catches in her hair, and a half-empty juice box is abandoned beside her like evidence of a toddler uprising.

She looks up, sees me, and smiles that calm, dangerous smile of a woman who’s ruled a household, a husband, and likely a small militia.

“Escaping already?” she teases.

“Trying,” I say. “The Play-Doh looks hostile.”

She laughs, shifting Lorenzo to her lap as he grabs her earring.

“Come here,” she says. “Say goodbye properly.”

I kneel beside her, careful of the carpet landmines, and Lorenzo immediately reaches for my hair.

“Traitor,” I whisper.

“He likes you.”

“He’s got bad taste,” I joke.

Alena raises an eyebrow. “You don’t mean that.”

I glance down at the baby on her lap.

“I don’t know what I mean anymore,” I admit. “I have no career goals,” I shrug as I observe my brother’s son. He looks just like his father with his mother’s nose.

Alena tilts her head, studying me in that way she does—quiet and all-knowing.

“You’ll see how it is,” she says softly. “When you have yours. I have a career, but this is where my heart is.”

It’s a casual line, an affirmation for motherhood. But it lodges in my chest like a bullet.

When I have mine.

Not if.

Not maybe.

And suddenly, I can see it.

Tiny hands. A laugh I’d kill to protect. A version of Vukan that knows how to hold something without breaking it.

The thought terrifies me. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do. I stand quickly, brushing invisible lint from my shirt .

“I should go,” I say.

Alena nods, already focusing on wrangling the book from Lorenzo’s greedy hands.

But as I step outside into the late afternoon light, I’m no longer thinking about the storm building around us.

I’m thinking about after the storm .

And whether a man like Vukan will ever leave the war long enough to build something without blood and death as its foundation.

I return home, and Irina is busy with dinner, so I steal a chance to use my laptop. My heart is still hammering when I search his name online.

I know there will be little to nothing under the word mafia, so I click on the photo archives.

I discovered a war photographer’s collection, primarily consisting of black and white images.

The war and its subsequent skirmishes are as gritty as they are devastating.

But perhaps the ones after the war weren’t the country’s war.

It must have been related to his family’s business.

A young boy—maybe ten. Shirt torn. Blood on his face. Eyes like the sky after a storm and just as empty. His features are similar to Vukan’s.

I don’t need details about what Vukan’s witnessed over the years to understand his brutal, obsessive protection—it all makes sense now. He’s not guarding power, he’s guarding graves.

After dinner, I find him in the library.

His designer jacket is tossed over a chair. A Glass of something dark in his hand. He doesn’t look up when I walk in, so I sit beside him silently.

Then he says, without turning: “You looked me up.”

It’s not a question. It’s like he knew I was investigating him, and now I feel dirty. He’s so perceptive. I’m caught off guard, and I can’t breathe. The depths of this man’s love are overwhelming .

“I asked Matteo.”

He nods once, followed by more silence.

“I’m not angry,” he says.

“I didn’t think you would be.”

“She loved honey in her coffee,” he says quietly. “And she made our daughter wear yellow even when it rained. She used to say sunshine belonged everywhere.”

I don’t breathe.

“They were taken because of me,” he says. “Wrong side. Wrong deal. I thought I was untouchable. I was wrong.”

I reach for his hand.

“I dug them out of a foundation,” he says, voice breaking at the edge. “I didn’t even cry until the next day. I just… moved them like a soldier. It was too painful to think otherwise.”

My throat tightens.

“Slovenia is not peaceful for me. It’s memories. Lots of bad memories.”

I turn his hand over in mine. This explains the scars on his strong hands, the calluses that cover them. I lean my head against his shoulder.

“You’ve carried it for so long. But I’m here for you.”

Neither of us spoke again for some time, letting the shared quiet talk for us. I’ve never been one for silence when there’s nothing I can say that’s helpful. But this is that moment.

I see him. Not the mafia heir. Not the ruthless tactician. Not the gray-eyed enemy who’s stalked my mind since the moment we met.

I see a man. A trained, scarred man who’s lost so much.

And still, he offered me a piece of himself with no threats or forced seduction.

I rub my hand over his warm one. And for the first time since this deal began, I’m not trying to win.

I’m just trying not to lose him because I don’t want to walk away. Not anymore.

Now, I know his silence isn’t emptiness. It’s the echo of everything he’s lost. This is why he was good with the kids in the shelter, why he donated to the Adopt a Dog program, and why Meatball is walking in his house.

I’ll never ask him to give me more than he already has.

Because this— sitting with him, knowing what he’s been through and that we’re still here, is everything.

And I’m giving my heart to this man, piece by piece.